Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 July 1896 — WORTH WINNING [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WORTH WINNING

CHAPTER XXX. When Camilla recovered consciousness •he found herself lying on the lower steps of the staircase with Cyril bending over her. As soon as she opened her eyes he •aid: “You feel better now. dear Camilla, do you not?” “Better? What is the matter? Oh, yes,” she added, quickly pressing her white little bands to her forehead. “I remember, I turned giddy. Did I fall?” “No; I was just in time. I heard you laughing strangely and hurried to the •pot.” “Thank you,” she said, vaguely, “you —you are the very person 1 wanted to •ee.” “Yes,” he replied, evidently surprised. It had long seemed to him that Miss Harding never did want him. “Pray what can I do for you?” She was in such a hurry to go through with what she had resolved upon that she came to the point at once. “I have to speak to you without loss of time on ▼ery important business.” And she laid an imperceptible emphasis on the last word. “Shall we go into the library?” he asked. “Oh, dear, no. This will do. If any listeners come we shall see them.” “Well, I am all attention.** “My father before mnking that dreadful attempt, wrote me a letter, which I have only read to-day. I learn from it that you had promised to pay all his debts of honor on condition that —that I become your wife.’" There was no embarrassment in her tone or aspect as she said this. The •light hesitation was due solely to disgust; but she concealed the feeling, and as Acton merely bowed his head in assent, she continued: “My father, I know, will not recover unless his mind is set at ease. The doctors say as much. I have just told' him that you are going at once to settle all his bets.” “Indeed!” “Yes. I will pay the price.” “Those are hard words.” “Why so? Everything in this world has to be paid for, and dearly too. I want to know if you consider the agreement still open? I need say nothing of my sentiments. You know quite well I cannot love, but I know this is a point you are indifferent upon.” “Oh, how little you know me. I would give worlds for your affection, but ” “But you are content to do without it. To our agreement, please,” she went on, with a strange, low laugh. “Now, then, are you still prepared to pay those sums, thousands, no doubt, for my father, and take me in exchange? If so, you had' better rush up to town this very day and do it. At the same time you are free to publish our engagement. I will marry you as soon as the preliminaries can be decently arranged—say in two months from now.” It took a good deal to startle Cyril Acton; nor did the mere fact of even Camilla Harding coming into his conditions seem to him beyond the limits of possibility. But what did literally take his breath away were the words and the manner of this girl he thought he knew so ■well, as she suddenly seemed to turn into a new being. He now put on a very melancholy face as he took a Canadian telegram out of his pocket, which he handed to her, say in “I have had sad news to-day. Read it.”

“Viscountess Hammersley, Montreal, to Hon. Cyril Acton, South Audley street, London. Your father has had a fit and lies in a hopeless condition. lam distracted.” Though these were people whom Camilla had never seen, her gentle heart, never so engrossed in her own sorrows as to be indifferent to the sufferings of any human being or even dumb animals, at once began to pity and feel for them. “Oh,” she said, “what anxiety your poor mother must be in! What will you do?” “Well, what can I do? It can serve no possible end for me to set out for Canada. If it ends fatally, I shall get my mother to come over here.” This might be all very sensible, but it struck Camilla that the young man took the sad news with wonderful coolness, and she reflected that he had then no sign of grief till he produced the telegram. However, she now so abhorred Acton that it would have positively disgusted her to discover any good trait in him. Fortunately at this moment Lady Prendergast appeared' upon the scene, and was informed of Lord Hammersley’s sudden illness, which of itself accounted for the heir having to run up to London, since there lawyers and agents are more easily communicated with, and it was impossible to say what a man in Cyril’s situation might not have to take upon himself. So after the exchange of a few conventional phrases, he departed then and there, no allusion having been made to his new engagement. No sooner had he left the house, however, than Camilla imparted to her gran’ma the startling intelligence, returning for that purpose to that overjoyous, over-careless, acted manner which was in reality so unlike her. But the news was such a delightful surprise to the old lady that she did not stop to observe or analyze very closely, and was as happy over it as Camilla intended her to be. Cyril’s departure, besides the breathing time from the dread oppression of his presence which it afforded, left Camilla at full leisure to welcome the marvelous improvement in her father’s state which her heroic sacrifice had inaugurated. Her respite from Acton’s society was not of long duration. Twice he wrote during his stay in London, and' within the week he was back again—a guest beneath the very roof of Silverruead. There had been no love letters. His first epistle was to Lady Prendergast, and simply announced that Lord Hammersley was no more. The second was indeed to Camilla, but as it only preceded him by a few hours, it consisted of only a few hasty lines. On his return —it was the moment before dinner —she had advanced as he entered the drawing room, and boldly, in the presence of the two elders, offered him her cheek to kiss. After that she told him plainly that as Miss Harding she would not be caressed, and on the rare occasions on which he essayed to break through this compact, she immediately took refuge in flight. We know that Cyril detested rows, and that he was one who could wait CHAPTER XXXI. The weeks flew by, and there was no

BY JEAN MIDDLEMIIS.

conceivable pretext for deferring the marriage. When it reached Camilla’s ears, as it could not fail to do, that Horace Brudenell was to be married on the same day as herself, she was far more upset by it than she could have imagined that any information concerning the only man she had ever loved, would have power to disturb her. From that moment her thoughts were perpetually with him. It is very difficult to convey any just idea of the manner in which they were so. It was hardly thinking—a brooding, a semimeditation, a day dream in which she sought ffitental shelter from the impending horror of her marriage; and to a great extent, it served her end. At length the fatal morning arrived. Lord Hammersley is pale and nervous, ns Camilla kneels by hie side in the little church, and he keeps looking about —as much as he dares—with uneasy glances, and a seriousness upon his clear-cut couptenance ill-suited to the festive oocasion. The officiating clergyman, a fine and venerable looking man, archdeacon of the diocese, had proceeded with the ceremony in the particularly dignified and impressive manner which, in the pulpit, had made him a name as a preacher. He was one of those speakers who lend value to whatever they say. When he reached that portion of the marriage service, “Cyril, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to love —” strange, faint, distant noises, just audible for the first few instants, had in them, even then, a something which was ominous. Ten seconds more and they had form and meaning, and every one turned and consulted his neighbor’s eyes. It was a galloping of horses, a rumbling of wheels, shouts of alarm or consternation. The clergyman stopped dead in the midst of the service, then recovering himself, endeavored to proceed. But like a hurricane the tumult swept on —nearer, ever nearer, as if the church were its aim and it would strike it to the ground. From the archdeacon to the smallest cottage urchin every face was bleached but one, and that was the bride’s. What cared she? And now an open carriage and sou and this one had no bridal favors, you may be sure—has dashed up to the church door, stopping so suddenly that the streaming, foam-flecked and panting horses are thrown violently upon their haunches. Two of its four occupants spring helter-skelter to the ground; the others, men in years, follow as they can. For the past five minutes all have been shouting, as they continue to do. “Stop the marriage! In the queen’s name! In the queen’s name, no marriage —stop, stop!” And the various groups along the road —for the whole population were out today—had caught up, they knew not how, the enthusiasm of the newcomers, and lustily joined in the cry, many of them no doubt recognizing the evident leader of the quartette, who stood erect, clutchifag the box seat and urging on the postilions in a frenzy of excitement. This man, the first to enter the church, did not walk but tore up to the very altar steps, the spellbound crowd opening before him as waves cut by some racing prow. “Hold, in the queen’s name, hold!”

Camilla turned her head and gazed on Horace Brudenell. “Your pardon, sir; you see there was no time to lose. A moment more and you will thank me, ns must every honest man, for this seemingly brutal interruption.” With wonderful self-possession the bridegroom, who had started to his feet on the carriage stopping, addressed him. Perhaps he was less astounded at this bewildering occurrence than was generally supposed. “And by what right do you Invoke our sovereign’s name to cover such an outrage, Mr. Brudenell?” “By the right that every subject has to stop felony! No less. You are an impostor and a rogue.” “How dare you!” exclaimed the bridegroom, advancing upon the other, as if to smite him; but Horace never blanched. “Lord Hammersley!” began the archdeacon, who leaned upon the arm of one of the assistant ministers and had not yet spoken. “Whom do you address, sir?” said Horace. “This man is not Lord Hammersley, and he knows it.” “If I am not,” almost yelled the accused man, desperately trying to brazen it out, “I should very much like to know who is?” “Behold' him!” And as Horace said this, he pulled forward his old friend, Jack Forbes, of whom no one till now had taken any notice. He stood there, blushing like a girl, and wishing himself a thousand miles away almost as fervently as his cousin did. “But, sir,” faltered the archdeacon, “what proof?” “Oh, I have plenty. First, I am well known to many here present; my name is Horace Brudenell. There stands my uncle, Sir Howard'. But I bring down my chief witness, Sir Ewing Crofton—” here he took the great doctor for a moment by the band—“and I come armed with the law in the person of this gentleman.” Here he indicated the elderly man in black, who had come with them. Then turning to the clergyman again, he asked, in a tone which, do what he would to render it respectful, had still in it a strong piece of menace: “Do you consent, sir, to suspend the ceremony?” “I have no other course.” The false Lord Hammersley once more spoke—bold to the last “Sir,” to the clergyman, “I am here, it appears, friendless and defenseless —a position which, as Englishmen, you will respect. I go straight to London, where alone I can obtain that justification which I pledge you my honor I can command. The scene you have witnessed is either an unheard-of outrage or a gross mistake. If the former, those who have committed it shall atone dearly for their crime; if the latter, they shall curse their credulity. Miss Harding, ladies and gentlemen —till we meet again.” And he strode, with well-acted dignity, straight out of the church.

CHAPTER XXXII. Had he who came to interrupt these unholy nuptials been a common felon, in the Portland garb of infamy, Camilla Harding would have felt inclined to clasp him to her heart. According to the evidence befon* her—as has been so repeatedly shown in this history—Horace Brudenell’s conduct toward her was wholly indefensible. There is, however, that royal prerogative about the truth that as a rule, it is sure to assert itself sooner or later, and shine

through falsehood, as the glorious sun athwart huge banks and packs of cloud. No sooner did the bride gaze upon that once-loved face than she read his innocence by the light of her heart; and the discomfited bridegroom, followed by his best man, had barely reached the porch, when Camilla went straight up to her old lover, with her hand out, and said low but earnestly: “Will you come back with us? I must see you and —thank you.” “I will do all you "wish, Miss Harding. I feel you are entitled to much fuller explanation.” And she, upon this assent, turned to Lady Prendergast, and hurried her away. How Silvermead was reached nobody could afterward have told. The party packed themselves away promiscuously in each successive vehicle that drove up, the nearest getting in, and all too anxious about fleeing to care how they went The crowd was a silent one, exchanging little more than whispers with each other, and gazing in search of further information upon the faces of “the quality,” as they drove by. How much of that same diamond-like article —the truth—Horace had read upon the young girl’B face which she had seen in his, in those brief moments, is uncertain —men are less gifted in such clairvoyances—but he now fairly panted and burned to have an exhaustive explanation with her he had once so wildly adored. “Jack,” he said, seizing the other’s arm as they jolted along, “you well snow 1 came down here for you, and to do an act of common justice; but I no sooner caught sight of Cam—of Miss Harding, than— Oh, Jack, I believe I love her as wildly as ever.” “Oh, Horace; and Lady Susan, who was so noble in letting your marriage be put off for three days?” “I can’t help that I am not telling you what I shall do, but what I feel; we don’t make our own emotions.” Camilla made the best of her way to change her dress. She felt so well and strong. Half an hour later she joined the others in the dining room. During the rather hurried repast everybody made an effort to talk of indifferent matters, so that there was little stiffness and less silence. When the ladies rose Horace went nud opened the door, Camilla saying to him as she passed, but so that all might hear her: “Let us go out. I brought down a hat” And without a word he followed her, and the youthful pair went straight to the little summer house where Camilla had held that interview with her father. Oh, let us draw a veil over their secret words. Do we not know all that each of them had to learn?—all the minutely told machinations of the evil Cyril Acton? For the first hour, which fled like ten minutes, they did little but relate facts. Of course, as soon as Horace learned that it was her father whom he had seen on that fatal night long ago, all became clear to him. Why had not some such suspicion, at least, struck him as possible? But no, fate had willed it otherwise. Perhaps the most thrilling moment of their confidence, of this joint narrative of their young lives since last they met, was when it transpired that their fiendish enemy had suppressed Camilla’s two letters. It is hard to say which felt the most on this cardinal fact coming to light Horace bounded from his seat. “Where is he?” he cried, wildly stretching his hands for the invisible foe. “Slave, hound! Oh, that I could tear him!” “And I thought him my friend,” exclaimed Camilla. “Listen. He pretended to give me your very words after you had read my letters? Oh, Horace, do you not wonder that a thunderbolt is not sent down to crush such reptiles in the very act?” Then he made her tell him all she had written to him, almost word for word; and as it was graven almost indelibly in her heart, she did his bidding with little effort. And then, when all the hard facts had been dug out and turned over and over, what torrents of words did these two pour forth to express and give vent to their long-imprisoned feelings. As they sat hand in hand, her sunny head resting against his black coat in which he had journeyed from London, they were indeed the type of two long tempest-tossed ships which, after sailing in halcyon seas side by side, had been parted by the storm, to meet now, torn and shattered, and to find rest and shelter in the same port With the knowledge of each other’s innocence all the old love returned to their true breasts with tenfold force. Did they forget Lady Susan? Oh, no, they could think of her—pity her with a clear conscience. She, like themselves, must bear whatever pain might fall to her lot from the black, heartless guilt of one and the same villain. In real life—and there it is where fiction least resembles truth —deliberate crime is nearly always irreparable—its effects eternal. Indeed, we may safely say that were it otherwise crime were scarcely crime—sin, sin. We have seen pretty exactly the amount of guilt committed by Cyril Acton, and more vaguely the degree of suffering entailed upon our promised spouses thereby. It remains on this subject only to indicate in what proportion the trail of the serpent respectively afflicted' both themselves and Lady Susan hereafter. As the lovers sit together in the pleasant rays of the October sun, both are exquisitely happy; Horace’s felicity is troubled by no doubt or misgiving. Camilla’s right to him, he tells himself, her priority claim upon his honor—is too evident to require stating. He Was engaged to her, she had never given him his liberty, and the grounds upon which he had taken upon himself to break the tie now turned out to be imaginary. He was in the position of a man who, believing his wife is dead, becomes betrothed to another woman. He knew, of course, that decency would demand some considerable delay before he could lead to the altar a girl who had that moment left it under such very exceptional'circumstances. Time must be given for the world to partially forget the countless articles, paragraphs, jokes, and even, doubtless, illustrations, which the press, especially the “society” papers, would infallibly issue by the cartload, regarding so racy and unusual an occurrence. But he felt so transported in regaining his idol and finding her all-in soul at least —that of old he dreamed her —that just to bask in her presence, hearken to her sweet voice and caress her hand abandoned to his own, was all the joy he could bear for a long time to come. But the next day faithful Jack came with a message that seemed to strike the last shackles from his spirit. Before she ever knew of the reunion of the lovers. Lady Susan, fancying a slight in the postponed marriage, and somewhat taken up with an old flame reappearing from the Orient, had written him, coldly dispelling all further ideas of a marriage. And in all her prayers that night—and they were real, honest prayers, said audibly with the lips, and upon her knees—her acts of praise and impromptu petitions or him she loved, none came more straight from Camilla’s heart than her fervent act of thanksgiving to the Merciful Dispenser of all things, who had saved her, in so unhoped-for a manner, from being, even at that very moment, Cyril Acton’s wife. (The end.)

We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.